


Through the Fallout

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows this is going nowhere good</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Fallout

They’re about a mile from the bar, running hard over an open stretch of highway with nothing to go by but the Impala’s headlights and nothing to see but tall grass on either side of the road when Sam starts to feel the itch, deep down in the bones at the base of spine, and knows that this is going nowhere good.

He hangs his head out the window into the cool October air and wishes it was raining, longs for cold water to run down his back and douse whatever this is before it gets out of control. He’s starting to feel like it’s too late already.

Dean is lecturing him, sharp and angry, about the rules – always buy your own drinks, always watch where they’re coming from, bottle to glass with no interference – and yeah, Sam will admit he fucked up there; he can’t explain in words how the girl smiled at him, soft but fearless, the same as Jess, because that would mean admitting that she’s still on his mind, every minute of every day, and he thinks this is how Dad must have felt, walking around with a ghost on his back

“Sam – Sam! – are you even listening to me?” Dean cuffs his shoulder and Sam feels it go right through skin, through muscle and bone right to the heart of him.

No, it goes straight to his cock.

“Pull over...”

“Sam – what...”

“Pull over!”

He must sound panicked enough, because Dean actually listens – or maybe he’s just worried that Sam’s going to puke all over the upholstery – the Impala hits the gravel shoulder and before it’s even at a dead stop, Sam is bolting into the grass, running for his life and his sanity.

He doesn’t know what this is, but he thinks he knows what it wants now; and no, no way is that going to happen.

He doesn’t get very far – or at least not nearly as far as he wants to – before Dean’s bearing down on him, grabbing him by the back of his jacket. Sam has the advantage of size, but he’s unbalanced by the sudden assault, stumbles back and rounds on his brother, not sure if he wants to hit him or do something else that’s entirely unforgivable.

“What the _hell_ Sam?” Even in the near-darkness he can see the fury on Dean’s face, and it ratchets up the adrenaline in Sam’s blood, “What the hell did that bitch do to you?”

Sam grabs the front of Dean’s jacket – clutches is a better word – he wants to push Dean away, to scream at him and punch him and run like hell until he can ride out whatever this is without doing something terrible to both of them; but all he does is hang on.

“Sammy?” Dean says, soft and wary. Sam watches him swallow, realizes he can smell Dean – gun oil, old leather and cheap motel soap – it should soothe him, but instead it makes him simultaneously hungry and sick to his stomach. “C’mon Sammy, talk to me – what the hell is going on?”

Sam pulls away, Dean pulls him back. They grapple helplessly for a moment, their shadows distorted in the runoff of the Impala’s headlights, close and hot, and Sam feels like he’s coming out of his skin as he begs Dean to let him go, _just let go_ , and Dean just digs his heels in and fights harder, because that’s what Dean does.

His grip doesn’t even slacken when Sam kisses him.

“Stop me.” It should be plea; it sounds like a challenge. “Dean...”

“Okay,” Dean says, right up against his mouth, “okay.”

He hooks his heel behind Sam’s ankle, and they hit the ground awkward and hard, still kissing. Dean’s mouth tastes like ash, salt and whiskey and Sam chases the taste right into the back of his brother’s throat, feeling how warm he is against the cold air and how he doesn’t pull away screaming when Sam’s fingers hook into his waistband, doesn’t fight it when Sam rolls them over in the crackling grass and grinds against him.

“Goddamn it Sam,” Dean catches a handful of his hair, and Sam waits for the pull, the sharp sting of pain – he wants it, because this is too much, too wrong, but Dean reels him in instead, presses chapped lips against his chin and flicks open the button on Sam’s jeans like they’ve been doing this all their lives. “Its’ too fucking cold for this, ya know. Couldn’t wait ‘til we got back.”

Sam can barely wait to breathe. When Dean’s hand wraps around his cock – cool and just a little clammy – it’s almost all he needs; he presses his face into Dean’s shoulder and tries not to whimper, sob or scream.

 _This is fucked up,_ he thinks, desperate and shaking as Dean works him in long slow pulls, _we are so fucked up_.

“It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay, I gotcha.”

He wishes for once that Dean couldn’t read him so perfectly. Sam isn’t an open book – he’s a book with the covers torn off and all the extra pages ripped out until it’s nothing but the bare bones of the plot and a few action sequences and reading it you’ll never know if the hero makes it out alive.

He doesn’t want to come, doesn’t want the relief, but it happens anyway, sticky and disgusting and all over the front of Dean’s favourite shirt. Sam buries his face in the crook of his brother’s neck and waits for the fallout, because there’s always fallout, and for something like this it has to be nuclear.

But Dean just presses the tips of his fingers into Sam’s scalp, the pressure sending soothing heat down his spine, and murmurs, “Next time just say something, Sam. Jesus.”

-End-


End file.
